Max was the person responsible for my time as a stage performer – or guilty of causing it, depending on your perspective. I don’t really know why, but he asked me if I fancied doing panto. I was forever challenging Max to do things and calling him a wimp if he declined, so I had little option. He invented the role of the King for me in Jack and the Beanstalk. We opened in Bradford and I’ve still got my first notice from the local paper. I was so nervous. Max said, ‘This can’t be any worse than facing the likes of Michael Holding and Malcolm Marshall.’ Don’t you believe it. Without too much prompting, I somehow got my lines out and waited for a favourable review. After several paragraphs about Max’s energetic performance, near the bottom of the article came my mention – ‘The only thing more wooden than the Beanstalk was Botham.’ Max consoled me by pointing out that things could only improve. ‘Theoretically’, I said.
In fact, by the end of our three-season stint at Bradford, Bournemouth and Stockport, I felt reasonably comfortable and competent, and I later went into panto with Robin Askwith in Dick Whittington at the Wimbledon Theatre. After my wooden start, Max gave me a valuable prop. It was a toy dog with a weak bladder but an excellent aim, the perfect weapon to deal with hecklers. My favourite story from our days in panto together concerned the guy at the front end of ‘Daisy’ the cow. Early on in the run Max’s funniest speech was interrupted by the sight and sound of the cow’s head falling off, rolling down the stage and dropping into the front row of the audience. Having been upstaged during one of his big moments Max told the bloke in no uncertain terms to take the necessary steps to ensure that, from then on, the cow’s head stayed attached to the rest of its body. The following night, however, at around the same moment in the performance, Max became aware that the audience’s attention was drifting away from him to a point at the back of the stage. Daisy had wandered on, several minutes earlier than she was due, and to the obvious delight of the full house, was stumbling around as though she’d been at the merry milk. Then she ran sideways to the front of the stage and launched herself into Row C. Max was puzzled to say the least, and it wasn’t until after the disobedient ‘beast’ had been helped back to the dressing-room that the cause of the problem became clear. Inadvertently, Daisy had been sniffing neat superglue, used to fix its head on, for the best part of half an hour.
Max also provided one of my most bizarre moments on a golf course in the inaugural Max Boyce Classic at the Royal Glynneath Golf Club. It absolutely hosed down and by the time we teed off, some of the greens were flooded. Max hinted we’d all be better off in the clubhouse, but I gave him the ‘wimp’ line once again. Local rules came into play for any ball landing on a flooded green – pick up the ball and put two putts on your scorecard. But my approach to the 17th green – which was completely under water – disappeared under the waves only about two foot from the hole. I wasn’t accepting two putts from there, so I stripped down to my underpants, waded through the water and ‘sank’ the putt for my birdie. So the members of Royal Glynneath were treated to the sight of I. T. Botham striding down the 18th fairway in his smalls!
Max and I have had some great times, but you need to keep a close eye on him during rugby weekends because, I’m sorry to reveal he’s a secret ‘tipper’. Sometimes the drinking rate gets rather fierce. That’s when he starts visiting the toilet with a full pint and returning with an almost empty glass. I followed him once and caught him pouring his beer away down the pan. Needless to say severe punishment was exacted as he was made to down the next pint in one.
Despite that filthy habit of wasting perfectly good booze I’m always delighted to see Max, except after Wales have beaten England. Thankfully, that rarely happens these days.
Boycs has never made any bones about it, so I won’t. Just about the most self-absorbed cricketer I have ever met. First, the undeniably good things about Geoffrey. Self-motivated and hard-working, you have to respect and admire the man for what he did. He was not a natural cricketer, but he made himself into a very good one. As an opening batsman for England, his record speaks for itself. He was, as he would have said, a ‘soooper’ player and his cricketing brain was always switched on. The problem was that as colleagues we all felt there were times when he was far more concerned with the needs of the one than the needs of the many.
My first experience of playing alongside Boycs for England contained an incident that told me much of what I needed to know. It happened on my Test debut in the third match of the 1977 Ashes series at Trent Bridge, Nottingham, the home ground of local hero Derek Randall. According to Wisden: ‘Randall began in great style but he was run out when Boycott went for an impossible single after stroking the ball down the pitch where Randall was backing up. In the end, Randall sacrificed his wicket to save Boycott.’ Listeners to Test Match Special heard John Arlott comment: ‘How tragic, how tragic, how tragic.’ The words used in the dressing room were somewhat more pointed.
To his credit, Boycs made a magnificent hundred and, fittingly, Randall made the winning runs. But the words ‘run out’ and ‘Boycott’ were destined to play a significant part in my future career. I didn’t realize it at the time, but looking back on events in the second Test against New Zealand on the following winter tour, there is no doubt in my mind that carrying out the orders of vice-captain Bob Willis to run out skipper Boycott did more for my standing within the England camp than any runs or wickets I was in the process of compiling.
Boycs will tell you until you are tired of hearing that his attitude to batting was that it is a selfish business. He sincerely believed that he was the best batsman in the side and therefore, if anyone had to sacrifice their wicket in a run out, for the benefit of the side it should be the bloke at the other end. There is some logic in that, but not enough for me to ever be fully persuaded that when he stood his ground he was doing so for the good of the team.
The thing that really hardend my thoughts on Boycs took place years after we had both retired from the game, during the court case brought by myself and Allan Lamb against Imran Khan for libel over his accusations that our motive for alerting the world to ball-tampering by the Pakistan bowlers was racism.
Boycs was called to give evidence in what we considered to be a serious matter and he turned the proceedings into a Geoff Boycott Benefit event. He apologized to the court for the fact that he had not had time to change, and so arrived wearing a shirt sporting a logo for Wills, the tobacco company. I’m sure it was an accident, but some observers were convinced otherwise. They pointed out the case was attracting huge publicity in India and Pakistan where Wills have massive interests. Surely that couldn’t have had anything to do with his choice of attire.
Then, in the eyes of some, he tried to railroad the case from the witness box by launching an attack on Brian Close, his former Yorkshire and England team-mate. True, Close had cast aspersions on Boycott’s character the day before, but his testimony was hardly startling stuff and was probably very much in keeping with the views of the majority of those who had come across Boycs during his career. And anyway Boycott had been summoned to talk about the case at hand, not himself. On second thoughts, some chance. The judge was so incensed by Geoff’s performance that he told him to belt up and was very close to charging him